She looked small, stripped of the expensive clothes and jewelry she had stolen from me.

She was chewing on her fingernails, her foot tapping a frantic rhythm against the table leg.

“She already tried to blame your mother,” Harper said, leaning against the wall.

“But the signatures on the fraudulent transfer papers are all hers.”

“What about Arthur’s testimony?” Wyatt asked.

“He gave us a full statement,” Harper said.

“He saw them push you down the cellar stairs.”

“He saw them lock the door and turn off the lights.”

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the observation window.

I remembered the darkness of that cellar, the damp smell of earth, and the sound of the key turning in the lock.

My ribs still ached where I had fallen against the wooden steps.

“I want to go to court,” I said.

“I want to see this finished.”

“You will,” Harper said.

“The prosecutor is fast-tracking this because of the flight risk.”

The next three months were a blur of cold mornings, legal briefs, and endless depositions.

Wyatt and I stayed at a small, quiet rental near German Village.